digiorno | ic inbox ( ruby city ) Ⅲ

[Giorno shakes his head, fervent, insistent.]

I've been thinking about it too much. Over and over in circles in my head--just because I'm better at pretending I'm okay doesn't mean I am okay.

[That hurts to say; he bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut for a second, trying to keep it together.]

I'm not. Usually . . . the more okay I seem, the less okay I am. And I'm really scared, still. But I trust you. I'd trust you with anything. Everything. So it's okay, even if we're both messes.

[He looks at Fugo. Then he looks at his hand, outstretched, and bites his lip again, deep in thought. Compared to everything Fugo just did, this isn't really a risk at all, is it?]

[Carefully, he pulls his other hand out of Fugo's and readjusts, sits back against the pillows, pats his lap. A little shy. Mostly hopeful.]

You're too far away.

Edited 2016-12-27 23:48 (UTC)

[Fugo has a lot of thoughts about Giorno who's very good at pretending to be okay, even when he's not; even more about how much Giorno must trust him to share that with him, to put it into words and admit it without trying to hide or minimize it. A few of them might have even made it successfully out of his head. And he'll get back to them in a minute, because that's all very important, but he's a little distracted from them at the moment.

Because. Giorno gently pulls his hand free, which at first leaves Fugo feeling adrift and unhappy in the distance between them until he puts it together that it was only because Giorno was making space. For him to sit. On his lap.]

Oh. [He starts going red again, eyes flicking restlessly from Giorno's hands to his face. They're too far apart, that's true; it's not quite the same as what he felt after telling Giorno he loved him, resentful of the space between them. But it's in the same range, he thinks. And here's Giorno, offering what he's too self-conscious to even think to ask for. Fugo stares and nervously rubs his knuckles before replying very eloquently with:] ... okay.

[He's. Committed to it now, isn't he. Fugo gingerly shifts and rearranges himself until he's more or less settled on Giorno's lap. And then shifts again, because he's not sure how to sit without poking Giorno with his shoulder or elbow. A thought occurs to him, too silly not to chuckle about or share with Giorno.]

This would be a little easier if we weren't so close in size. [A pause, then-] ... tell me if I'm poking you.

Edited 2016-12-28 02:06 (UTC)

[Fugo is . . . being really cute again. Not on purpose, although Giorno doesn't think Fugo is ever exactly cute on purpose. He just sort of is that way naturally, unaware of how lovely he is in his self-imposed awkwardness. He settles, holding himself stiff, and Giorno beams up at him, too happy for words.]

You're not. You're perfect.

[It's easier than it must have been for Fugo, before, because his back's to the wall; he's not trying to balance up against nothing. But Fugo has a point all the same: it could be easier. His smile turns a little wry.]

Mm, it'd be easier if we weren't thinking so much, right?

[Like last time, he doesn't say, but thinks, loudly. There was another difference, too, though. It wasn't so tentative. Fugo didn't give him time to be tentative. That's sort of ironic, he thinks, and wraps his arms around Fugo's waist, tugging him close and burying his face in his neck.]

[Yes. Perfect. Contented, he sighs. Hums, really.]

See. You're stuck with me now. Did you know, Fugo, that I have wanted to do this since . . . October twelfth.

[Oh, this is... it's funny, or maybe it's sad, that it surprises him every time how nice it is when Giorno holds him. Giorno wraps his arms around him, buries his face in the crook of his neck, and sighs, plainly perfectly content and completely satisfied with how things are currently going for him.]

Maybe. But that wouldn't be a very productive conversation. [Fugo squirms, one last time, before easing himself into Giorno's embrace. Giorno's very warm and, unsurprisingly, smells like flowers and a very little bit like chocolate. Fugo can never tell exactly what kind of flowers Giorno smells like, or if it's his perfume or the results of whatever foolishness he's been up to with Gold Experience. Maybe it's both. No matter what, though, it's a good smell. A Giorno smell. And as he settles, he thinks back to October. October 12, isn't that...] What. Really? But that's the day we started--

[Mmph. This whole. Kissing venture. And whatnot.]

No, it wouldn't.

[And he is still mostly focused on productivity. Mostly. He's decided to take a couple of moments, just a few, to be happy. Which he is. Terrified and worried and sad, but happy, too. It's hard to get used to the reality of every emotion that he has at once, because there are so many. But it's easier with Fugo, somehow. It's easier knowing that if he can't hold everything he's feeling in his two hands, Fugo will help. He'll always help.]

[The concept of "always" is very scary. But Fugo will always help, if he can. So Giorno must always lead the way, too, when he's needed. Like he is now. Fugo needs him now.]

[It . . . feels good.]

The day we started-- [He bites his lip, breathes in the smell of Fugo's shirt.] Mm. Dating? Does that . . . sound right? Or is that starting now?

[It's important to keep the conversation on track. Fugo knows that he should but, at the same time... honestly, he's very worn already. He's content just to sit curled close with Giorno, listening to him breathe and absently picking at and fiddling with the knit sleeve of Giorno's nightgown. He likes the texture of it underneath his fingertips; still, he listens and feels for any sign from Giorno that he should stop. Just in case.]

Dating, [he murmurs. The word feels odd in his mouth, especially in relation to the two of them. So he says it again and, this time, it's a little easier.] We're dating, now. [Fugo purses his lips and thinks Giorno's question over.] I honestly have no idea. We... started this in October, but only talked about it today. Do you care about sharing the week with Christmas?

Not really. Christmas is just Christmas. But . . .

[Ugh. He peeks up at Fugo through his lashes, most of his face hidden against Fugo's shoulder still. He's so shy. It sort of feels like maybe he's always exactly this shy, or more so, but he's just forgotten until now. Terrifying. But Fugo smells so good.]

Do you think . . . ah. Is it silly--or. No, I want to ask: is it more important to mark the day I kissed you, or the day you told me you loved me, or the day we really talked? They all seem important. And I don't want to make a chart of all of the days, that's too many.

[Lightly, carefully, Fugo's picking turns into running his fingers up and down a line on Giorno's shoulder. Up, then down. Up again, down again.]

I think all three of those days are equally important, because each of them brought us one step closer to this. [He makes a thoughtful noise.] So ... maybe the day you kissed me? Not because it's more important, but because it was the first step.

[That's . . . a little distracting. But it feels nice. It's hard to decide whether to tell Fugo to knock it off or indulge, but in the end--well, it's Giorno. He closes his eyes and hums for a moment, shivers and sinks into the attention.]

The first step to us being dating. Okay. So--October twelfth.

[He's getting used to it. Dating. That's a thing they're doing, apparently.]

. . . Do we have to use boyfriends? That word is weird.

[Oh. It's a little hard for Fugo not to be distracted by Giorno's reaction. It catches him by surprise so often when Giorno relaxes into his little touches, especially when they're an expression of his own restless fidgeting. It's so odd to think of them as something even remotely positive.

But. That's a tangent. They've made it through two steps: yes, they are dating, and yes, it started on the twelfth of October. And now... this. The boyfriends issue.]

I... [Fugo pulls in a breath and then just sighs.] Keep coming back to that word. JP once used it in reference to you-- [Here, he pokes Giorno's shoulder, before returning to his up-and-down sweeping.] It was about the coffee ban. He asked if you issued it as my boss, or my boyfriend.

[He shakes his head. Idiot. That ban's been in place for months, much longer than-- dating. They agreed on a word, so he needs to use it.]

It didn't seem to fit then. And I don't know if it fits now. What do you think?

Edited 2016-12-28 08:15 (UTC)

. . . It's too small.

[There's a flush spreading across the bridge of his nose. There are very faint freckles underneath them, which Giorno usually takes care to hide. Not with Fugo, though. Not anymore. And they stand out against the warmth, the everythingness he's feeling about what he's about to say.]

[It's embarrassing. But it's also painfully, devastatingly, beautifully true. Nervously, he licks his lips and lifts his head so he can look--mostly at Fugo. A little to the side.]

I don't . . . know much Japanese. Anymore. I'm relearning, a little, even though--that's scary too. But one thing I learned was, there are different ways to say I love you. Just like in Italian. Only--

There's one that almost everyone uses. For almost everything. Even. [He glances up at Fugo, then seems to change his mind, glances away again.] Boyfriends. Things like that. It changes, mm. With context. It can be very serious. But.

[One more step. One half step. He has to. It's true, isn't it?]

It's . . . not aishiteru. Aishiteru is--very serious. More than ti amo, even. It's big.

[Now he looks at Fugo. It's out, he has to prove that he means it, because he does, god, he does. He looks Fugo in the eye, and he's shy and embarrassed and fierce and fluttery, his arms tight around Fugo's waist.]

Mio corpo, mio cuore, la mia anima. That's aishiteru. I knew that, you know. When I said it. That's bigger than boyfriends. But I don't know any word that fits better.

[It's too small. With that one brief sentence, Giorno has perfectly sized up why he doesn't like that word. It doesn't fit. It barely scratches the surface of who Giorno is to him. Take things one step at a time, Kakyoin said. But what are they supposed to do when they've taken the steps all out of order? Before he even came here, long before he started looking for reasons to spend time with Giorno or hold his hand, he made a promise: everything, for Giorno's dream. And he'd meant it, too.

So he doesn't like it. The thought of trying to stuff his promise into a word that's far too small.]

[While he's still thinking about that, Giorno lifts his head; some instinctual knowledge, gathered from the other times they've spoken seriously like this, tells him it's because Giorno wants to at least try to look him in the eye while he shares something important. The angle's a bit odd in their current position, but Fugo twists to meet him anyway--even when it turns out that Giorno can't look at him directly yet. It's fine, though. Giorno can take his time. Fugo is content to wait for him as long as he needs to, because he loves to watch Giorno talk. Especially when Giorno's taken off his makeup and they're close enough that Fugo could count the dusty freckles speckles across the bridge of his nose.

He does want to. And maybe he will, when they're finished talking; maybe he'll kiss the bridge of Giorno's nose and underneath his eyes and tell him in no uncertain terms that he adores Giorno's freckles. Right now, though, he needs to pay less attention to Giorno's face and more to what he's saying. Giorno is taking their thing-- their kissing thing, their ti amo thing, their dating thing-- and explaining why he chose the shape of aishiteru.

This thought is an aside, but an important one: Haruno is amazing. Not just for having the courage to relearn Japanese--but for holding on for so long, even as his head was held down under the water so he could be remade as Giorno. Have to be Italian to get what I want, Haruno shared with him him, months and months ago. And I want... everything. But here he is, holding tightly to him, and adamantly sharing aishiteru with him.]

[Fugo loves him. More than any words, any oath can say.]

Aishiteru. [He wants to lean in, rest his forehead against Giorno's, kiss him, do away with language altogether. It's so much easier to show rather than say. But this is part of love too, he thinks: choosing to do something difficult for the sake of someone else.] I ... like that it's that big. It feels like it has room for everything.

[He smiles, twitchy and fond, and gently pats Giorno's shoulder.] It's much better than some social shorthand.

. . . You understand.

[The relief is so--palpable in his words. Like a sigh in a short sentence: you understand, which means Giorno doesn't have to panic, doesn't have to worry, doesn't have to anything except love Fugo exactly as much as he does, which is so, so much.]

[Oh. Thank God. He understands.]

[Giorno slumps a little, buries his face against Fugo's shoulder, and tries to remember how to breathe.]

I was so nervous! Oh. I was so nervous.

[Breathing. In and out. In . . . and out. God. Okay. He rubs his cheek against Fugo's shoulder and then looks up, a little teary but with his jaw stubbornly set.]

Okay. So--so if you understand, then maybe we can just. We can say it. The stupid word that isn't big enough. But then we can also--know that that's not the whole thing. Social shorthand.

Are we doing that? Is that what we're doing?

[He knows. He knows he should be good, that they need to finish this conversation and-- they will, they've made it this far. But when Giorno looks up at him again with such naked relief in his eyes after burying his face into his shoulder, after repeating himself, Fugo can't not lean in to press a reassuring kiss between his eyebrows.]

I know. [Another kiss, for good measure, just to help it sink in.] I could tell.

[It's funny. All of this worrying and... it's stupid, how simple it's been. How he understands what Giorno means and how Giorno can find the perfect words for their shared insecurities. And now they know, just like that. Like the kiss, a bubble of laughter helplessly spills out of him.]

It is a stupid word. Boyfriends. [As if that could cover-- even the tiniest fraction of what Giorno means to him. It's flippant, tiny, too casual.] But I think that's probably the simplest way to explain it to-- [His cheeks pink.] Um. ... anyone else. Because even though it doesn't fit, it's good social shorthand.

[He pauses, fingers fiddling in Giorno's sleeve again, suddenly shy. But it's important to say it, so he does.]

Yes. I think that's what we're doing.

[His thoughts are still going a mile a minute. But at least they're not scary thoughts anymore. More excited, more--oh, he thinks, with sudden clarity. I have a boyfriend. Fugo's . . . my boyfriend.]

I never thought about having a boyfriend, [his mouth says, treacherously, out loud in the air between them, as he stares at the hollow of Fugo's throat and goes pink,] because I thought I'd be too busy, and also I didn't like anyone, and also, um, Italy--and I wanted other things, first. But I have one now.

[Hm. That's . . . a surprisingly big thing to think about, in its own way. He blinks, and looks up to meet Fugo's eyes.]

You are my boyfriend now.

[And it's funny, because it's not as though has anything has really changed, exactly, but: he grins a little all the same.]

Neither have I. [Giorno's honesty, in turn, prompts Fugo to admit it.] In school everyone was always so much older than I was. And then I was living with Buccellati. There was always just... I never thought about any of that because I've always had so many other things to worry about.

[Ah. Giorno's looking up at him, again. And he's so pink.]

Um. Yes. And you're my... [Can he say it? He needs to be able to say it. If he can't say it in front of Giorno, how is he going to say it to anyone else.] Boy...friend. [He blinks, quickly, and then says it again, testing the sound of it out in his mouth:] Giorno, my boyfriend.

[There's a moment of: oh no, we have to tell Bruno that we're boyfriends, officially, I don't want to do that, I really don't want to do that, that's the last thing I want to do, what if I went to live in the ocean instead-- but then.]

[But then. Then Fugo says it. And he's really not worried about anything anymore.]

[That, he thinks faintly, is enough of the not-kissing nonsense.]

Fugo, [he says, low and insistent,] I love you.

[And he leans up a little, closes the space between them, and kisses him. He won't get distracted. He promises himself, even as he sighs and pulls Fugo a little closer with arms around his waist, that he won't get too distracted. It's just--this is important. This is a moment that, he's pretty sure, deserves a kiss.]

[Fugo's so wrapped up in his thoughts, boyfriend thoughts, dating thoughts, wondering if being official means they need to people and if so who and how, preoccupied with his fiddling that Giorno's declaration sneaks up on him. He makes a sound, not quite a silly as Giorno's squeak on the twelfth of October, soft and surprised into the kiss.

Oh. Giorno loves him. Fugo hasn't forgotten and he doesn't think he ever will, but sometimes-- it surprises him, when he's all caught up in his own thoughts. But he'd much rather be kissing Giorno than thinking about how he's supposed to tell anyone he has a boyfriend now. So he pushes those thoughts aside, sighs contently, and melts into the kiss. This is so much better.]

[Whoops. This may have been a slight mistake. Fugo melts into the kiss and Giorno can feel his interest in the rest of the conversation fly right out the window. They still have more to talk about. He literally just told himself this. But all he can think about now is that Fugo tastes like ginger tea and is so soft and angular at the same time, and he smells so good, and then there it goes, there are fingers tightening in the back of Fugo's shirt and he's making a soft, helpless sound of delight and--]

[No, but he can't do that. No matter how much he wants to, this is a Serious Conversation. No matter how much easier this would be, or how much he wants to make Fugo make that soft sound again, he cannot do that. So . . . the only way out of this, Giorno is pretty sure, is to be rude.]

[He hums a little, somewhere between frustrated and reluctant, and pulls back with a kiss to the end of Fugo's nose. He does not want to do this. He wants to stop talking and kiss more. But that would be sort of like stomping with muddy boots all over the Mona Lisa after all of this, so:]

My boyfriend, [he murmurs, grinning,] smells good. Like tea and coffee and paper and ink and old books and the ocean. My boyfriend is so sweet to me and so brave for me and takes half a step towards me when I can't take a whole step myself. My boyfriend, [and he grins,] lets me bite him on the neck--

[This is a bad angle to kiss from. If it goes on for very long, Fugo will end up with a crick in his neck. The problem is that, frankly, he doesn't care about future neck pain when he's in the middle of kissing.

So it's probably a good thing that Giorno is the one who pulls away and, before Fugo has the chance to lean in again, starts to be... really, really rude.]

Giorno. [That is a tangent. An embarrassing tangent. So: Fugo says Giorno's name, in a warning tone in shades of Buccellati.] Giogio. [Except, no, Giorno just keeps going. He's rude in one breath and unbearably sweet in the next and then the absolute worst. Fugo's ears go red and he wiggles around to get one hand on Giorno's chest, lightly pushing him back and out of range, hotly insists:] Well, now I'm not going to.

[In fact. In fact. With his other hand, Fugo Very Deliberately adjusts his shirt. Giorno is being rude, he doesn't even get to look at the mark he's left there.]

[Ah. He wins. Kind of? But also loses. This is so complicated, good lord. Giorno sighs, and pouts, and sighs again, and pouts more, and then leans up and kisses Fugo on the chin, loudly.]

You'll probably forget you're mad at me by the morning. You always forget. Anyway, it's true. You do let me do that.

[This is a factual statement that cannot be denied. There is evidence. Just because it's not currently visible doesn't mean it's not there. Giorno knows, and Fugo knows, and Giorno knows Fugo knows he knows. So there.]

[He sighs again, but more happily, tips his chin up to look at Fugo, who is so beautiful and has the world's reddest ears right now. Yes. This boy. This one: he loves him.]

I have . . . at least a hundred questions. And things to talk to you about. But one thing first. You said you wanted to explain it to people? [. . .] Is that--what started all of this? Today, I mean. Not in general, obviously.

[Obviously, what started all of this was: big gay feelings.]

[Through the process of all this sighing and pouting, Fugo shoots Giorno a look that is positively scathing. The sound he makes when Giorno smooches his chin can only be described as disgruntled. Giorno can be so obnoxious when he wants to be, especially when he's right. But still: he's not getting away with it tonight, Fugo thinks adamantly to himself, knowing damn well that he's very bad at stopping Giorno from biting his neck.

But... they're talking again, now, not kissing. And he has to put words to all of his thoughts about talking to people about this thing they have. This Giorno and Fugo thing. Giorno and Fugo are dating thing. Giorno and Fugo are, social shorthand, boyfriends thing.]

Do you remember that morning when I fell asleep when I should have been waking up? [Which happened because a strong of nights that were good for nothing, but were especially awful sleeping.] The morning when I was so tired still when I woke up that I forgot about your mistletoe trap and got stuck, because you stepped out of the house for a little bit since you thought I'd sleep a little while longer. [He squirms, a little restless and all of a sudden very nervous again.] Kakyoin... brought me coffee.

[Giorno listens, quite carefully, to this explanation. It all makes a lot of sense. Very sensible. Careless of him, really. Oh, well. So it goes. Not that big of a deal. Not much of a problem. It's fine. So fine. It's . . .]

Hm. I see.

I suppose I did take a long time to answer, that day.

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